The dimly lit throne room was packed with people, all huddled around a center mass in the room. Pale cream walls hung with Lannister colored banners housed what seemed like hundreds of people, all murmuring as they stared at the red haired girl kneeling on the floor in front of the king. She was pleading with the king that she was not a part of her "traitor" brother's plots and to have mercy. She had more luck asking for dancing lessons from Gregor Clegane than to ask mercy from King Joffrey. As the small blonde boy reached behind the iron throne, a large slab of metal forged from hundreds of swords that had been sworn to dead kings, quiet screams and gasps echoed throughout the hall. The boy clung to an ornate crossbow which made The Hound's blood boil with silent rage. He gripped the pommel of his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white and old wounds stretched and cracked, leaking fresh blood into his gloves.
"You're here to answer for your brother's latest treason" Joffrey smirked, the tip of the arrow aimed straight between Sansa's ocean blue eyes that were crashing waves down her cheeks. She gasped along with every other living soul in the room.
"Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part of. You know that! I beg you, please-" she cried, but was interrupted by Joffrey's cousin, Ser Lancel, a blonde boy of no more than ten and six years who bore a striking resemblance to Ser Jaime "the Kingslayer" Lannister, the Queen's twin. Lancel babbled on about how her brother had used wolves to win the fight and then the men feasted on their enemies. She knew it was a complete load of lies, but that was the least of her problems as she stared down the golden tipped arrow meant for her.
"Killing you would send your brother a message…" her heart stopped, "But mother insists on keeping you alive." Joffrey sighed as he lowered the crossbow and her heart resumed its beating. "Stand," the King commanded and she did as she was told. There was still fire in his eyes which told her that her ordeal was far from over. "We'll send your brother a message some other way. Meryn!" Sansa's eyes flew to where the cruel knight stood, his teeth and eyes glittering in the faint light that shone through the stained glass window behind the iron throne. He quickly moved to stand in front of the Stark girl, teeth bared like a wolf who would surely eat her whole.
"Leave her face. I like her pretty." Before Sansa could plead for more of the King's mercy, the first blow came to her stomach which caused her to double over in a sort of pain she had never known. Her ribs felt as if they had just shattered into a thousand pieces of dragonglass and her lungs seized when she tried to take a breath. As Ser Meryn unsheathed his sword, the lords and ladies of court audibly gasped, the first time many of them had seen such violence, let alone at the hand of their king towards their future queen. Before she could cry out the sharp sting of the flat side of the blade slapped the back of her thighs and she screamed, dropping to the ground as her knees gave out. When her backside touched her thighs, she could already feel the welt that was forming and would grieve her for days. Seconds that felt like hours passed without another blow, and Sansa took this opportunity to face her betrothed, hands clasped in front of her.
"You know, my lady is over dressed. Unburden her."
Sandor so far had watched with heart racing and teeth clenched, every ounce of reserve he had used to keep himself calm and still to stop himself from slaughtering the King and every Kingsguard and running to cradle the girl. But when Ser Meryn took the back of the little bird's dressed and cleaved it in two, her hands racing to catch the baby blue cloth around her bosom, he looked away to try and save a shred of the girl's honor. Just as he had preserved her honor that first night in her chamber, he would continue to honor her, even if everyone else in the room wouldn't. She cried harder and clutched her torn dress to her body when Joffrey insinuated that the beating would continue, harder than before.
She had no more air in her lungs to cry, no more tears to shed for her cause. She was utterly alone, save for the man on the left hand of the King, his sworn shield who seemed to favor her to some degree and treated her with the most amount of kindness anyone in Kings Landing had shown her since the death of her father. It was to this man she looked for comfort and found only a shred in the deliberate dramatic drumming of his fingers on the pommel of his sword. The promise of pain to those who harmed her was enough to give her the strength to bow her head, her eyes shut to the sword being swung down towards her back.
"What is the meaning of this?" A sharp voice echoed from the back of the hall. The seas of people parted to reveal Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the King and uncle to Joffrey. The room went deathly quiet as The Imp made his way to the front of the room, passing Sansa on the floor.
"What kind of knight beats an innocent girl?" he snarled at Meryn.
"One who does as his king commands!" Meryn snapped back, his droopy eyes snapping open at the insinuated insult. But his statement was met with a steely glance from Bronn, Tyrion's sellsword, who playfully bantered with the wicked knight.
While Tyrion berated Joffrey for his lack of compassion towards his future bride, Sansa had lost focus as she realized she had somehow escaped the king's wrath. Blood was beginning to seep through her dress where the sword has broken skin on her thighs and her ribs continued to ache with every breath she took. She was so exhausted that she barely heard when The Imp called for someone to cover her up. She expected that no one would be brave enough to risk the King's anger, but at the sound of heavy footsteps, she raised her head and saw it was The Hound who took up the call, ripping the white cloak of the Kingsguard off his shoulders and draping it gently over her. Her slender fingers clutched at the material, inhaling the musk that emanated from deep in its folds. As her eyes searched his in a silent thank you, she could see the pain and fury he was suffering that showed itself in the wrinkle of his brow and the twitching in his lips, most prominent in the corners on his burnt side. In the sparse light, he looked almost handsome. Shadows hid the red and purple pockmarks on his burnt skin and made him look whole and smooth while the light reflected in those deep grey eyes. He grinned at her and took up guard beside her, a silent protector over her shoulder.
When he was done embarrassing the boy King, Tyrion Lannister came and offered her a hand to help her to her feet. She took it and gently walked out of the throne room by his side, padding on the balls of her feet so as to not aggravate the welts on the back of her legs. Though she wished to look back at the blonde child and the dark man, better judgment told her to keep walking with her head high.
"I apologize for my nephew's behavior. Tell me the truth. Do you want an end to this engagement?" Knowing that saying the wrong thing to the wrong person could get her killed, Sansa merely answered coldly that she was loyal to Joffrey, her true love. She swore she could hear a chuckle behind her as her handmaidens silently escorted her back to her room.
Inside the throne room, the chatter had grown to a loud buzz, one that did not fade to mere noise in your ears. The king stood blushing in humiliation while his uncle returned to continued to tell him off for his cruelty and lack of honor. Sandor tried to keep his thoughts on his last battle, the blood he had shed from boys as young as Joffrey. It gave him some small satisfaction that would tide him over until he could go check on the Lady Stark himself later that evening. Until then, he continued to follow the king around to serve as his protection, keeping his mind of what it would feel like to have Joffrey's small neck beneath his own large fingers and feel the gratifying crunch of his neck snapping. When the cruel bastard finally released him for the day, Sandor went to his room to drink himself in a stupor that would at keep him occupied until nightfall.
Back in her chambers, Sansa lay face down on her bed biting into her pillow as two handmaidens covered her bruises and contusions in a special salve that Grandmaester Pycelle had brought up shortly after her return to her chamber. He must have known what King Joffrey was going to do before he did it. Pycelle was too old to act that quick.
While the girls tended to her, Sansa began to think out loud. "Do you think our children will be this cruel?" She whispered, almost as if to herself. Her eyes found those of her newer handmaiden, a dark haired Lorathi girl named Shae who only shrugged.
"I don't know, my lady. The rest of the Lannisters don't seem so mean. Look at Prince Tommen." Her smooth fingers brushed a strand of hair away from Sansa's eyes as she stood to return the salve to the bedside table. Sansa began to yawn and her handmaidens started to gently tuck their lady into bed. "You need to rest, my lady. Things will get better." She wasn't sure if the girl spoke of her wounds or of her predicament, but both sufficiently calmed her as she laid her head upon her pillow and quickly fell asleep.
A small knock on her door awoke her long after the moon had risen and the birds outside her window had settled in their nests. Sansa rubbed her eyes, not sure if she had heard correctly when nothing stirred. Another set of knocks. When she couldn't muster a sound from her lips after a day's worth of crying and screaming, the door opened just a touch and a few gloved fingers peeked through the crack.
"Lady Stark?" a rough voice reverberated through the wood and into her body. Though her legs and back were stiff and a severe pain throbbed deep in her belly, she swiftly pushed herself up in bed, smoothing the sheets around her waist. The door continued to gently open until the scarred face of Sandor Clegane could be seen. There were no smiles for her tonight, only a furrowed brow, a staggering gait and the stench of alcohol.
She coughed trying to regain her voice and was able to rasp out a barely audible "Please come in." She was still clothed in the soft summer dress Shae had helped her into when they first returned to her chambers so she deemed herself presentable for Lord Clegane. One dainty foot after another slid out from beneath the covers and landed squarely inside her slippers. She strode towards the colossal figure that darkened her doorway with as much courage and honor as she could muster, knowing that he had seen her public humiliation. Though he reeked and frightened her with his unwavering stance, she meekly grabbed his hand and led him inside. He blinked and looked down at the small pale hand that held on to his tanned monstrous one. Just the girl's touch sent away some of his haze and used his unoccupied hand closed the door behind them.
"Please, sit my lord." She offered him the chair yet again as she did every night since that first night when Sandor Clegane had visited her chambers. Luckily for her he never took advantage of her or dishonored her in any way. Though the door was always closed, they spent their nights talking, usually courtly gossip or hopes and dreams. Or rather, Sansa did all the talking and Sandor just sat and listened. It was one of the few things he was particularly good at. She had grown to trust this large man and he had become the only other confidant she had other than Shae. She would at times ponder if he may even see her as a friend as she saw him.
"I've told you before, little bird, do not call me lord. That's my brother." He spat the last word out as though it was poison, and it may have well been for the love that Sandor bore his brother Gregor. But this statement only made the girl giggle lightly. Instead he stood facing her as she sat down on the edge of her bed, a softer spot than the wooden chair and much more forgiving to her injuries.
"Please, come sit beside me." She tried to phrase it more as a request but to The Hound, it was a command which he gladly obeyed. His weight pushing down on the mattress raised the girl a few inches so she was almost face to face with him, his good side facing her. "Would you like me to sing you a song?"
It was an odd question. Music did not interest him in the least. It was only good for men with no skill on the battlefield and ladies with their heads stuck in the clouds. But the chance to hear the little song bird sing was far too tempting to pass up. Perhaps it was her way of coping with tragedy as he could vaguely remember a sweet voice filling the Red Keep the night her father was beheaded.
"I would be honored, my lady." He bowed his head towards her. When he lifted his head, she was staring at him. It's probably my damn face scaring her away. He thought grimly. It was the source of most of his problems and could no doubt be used as an excuse for a woman staring. But she surprised him when she lifted a gently hand to caress the worst side of his face. Though he could not feel it, he knew that her skin would be as soft as silk and he could just smell the scent of lavender and oranges on her wrist. He closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to sear this memory forever in his mind, should the bird finally come to her senses and forbid him from her company. When he opened them again, she was just starting to take a deep breath as she parted her full lips to sing.
"Gentle mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray…" Sansa had chosen to sing a hymn dedicated to The Mother, the epitome of kindness and love. Sandor wasn't sure what he was expecting from her, maybe some song about a handsome knight winning a princess, but not a song invoked to ease suffering. Though in retrospect it seemed fitting for her situation.
When she had finished, Sandor boldly reached for her hands, engulfing them between his own. His stern look must have startled the girl, because she seemed to shy away from his touch for just a moment before she regained her composure.
"You won't hurt me." She stated, whether to herself or to him, he wasn't sure.
"No little bird, I won't hurt you."
With that Sandor stood up and swiftly walked out the door, as quiet as a shadowcat. It took Sansa a few moments to recover, and she gazed down at her hands as if they had been touched by The Warrior himself. She brought them to her cheeks to feel the remaining warmth and sighed, a content sound she hadn't made in months, not since Joffrey had given her a golden lion necklace. She went to bed dreaming not of Ser Loras or Lord Renly, but of the burnt man who held her hands so gently.
